


The Ghost of Totleigh Towers

by Prawnperson



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves and Wooster
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Character Death, Murder, POV Bertram "Bertie" Wooster, first attempt at Bertie speak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prawnperson/pseuds/Prawnperson
Summary: I think I was out in the garden when it happened.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

If you’ve been keeping abreast of my adventures for a while now, then no doubt the mere mention of the words ‘Totleigh Towers’ should strike fear into your corpus in the same way it does to mine. If not, then I feel it only necessary to mention that most of my worst mishaps have taken place there, including the business with the cow creamer and the black amber statuette and the grandfather clock and what have you. Not only that, it’s usually home to the Bassett Menace, which would be reason enough on it’s own. 

I hadn’t been down to Totleigh since the incident with the pipes at Tuppy’s hands. I don’t really recall why I was called there, but for once, it seemed as though nothing would be able to go wrong. The Spode-Bassett union had been rescheduled and the banns reread, meaning I would most certainly be Madeline-free for the duration of the stay. Bingo was safely sequestered in Scotland with the new Mrs. Little, so there would be virtually no chance of him falling head over heels for Stiffy or something. With her being married at last, there seemed little she could do in the way of blackmail. Even Sir Watkyn Bassett seemed to have rather cooled since both his darling girls were safely sequestered away from the last of the Woosters. Everything had seemed ticketey-boo, bomps-a-daisy. God was in his heaven, as the poet chappie once said, and I felt jolly happy about the whole thing, and told Jeeves as much.

We hadn’t been there for more than a few uneventful days when the ’un’ bit of the word decided to biff off and leave me in the soup. I think I was out in the garden when it happened. I remember pondering going back inside to get my whangee when I heard a roar not unlike the sort I’m told large gorillas make in the wild to tell people they’re cheesed to the back teeth with getting shot at. It came from Roderick Spode, of course, then the seventh Earl of Sidcup. Not a very friendly chap, you may remember, and he was in a foul mood with me.

It might have involved Madeline. It probably did, as most things with Spode back then generally did, since he was absolutely loopy about the sap and may still be to this day. He shouted something or other about breaking hearts and looking up skirts or some similar rot, dashed if I can remember, and began striding towards me like a tractor headed towards a small field mouse. It rather felt that way at the time, what with him puffing his chest out and calling me things the Royal Navy would have chucked him out on his ear for. I did the usual, which is to say I blundered through the starts of some words and decided to make a jolly good go of running away. 

Spode caught me by the back of the collar. I had no Jeeves to save me, which might have been the bitterest pill of all. 

He really did lay into me. Spode, not the spirit of the absent Jeeves. I’ve been dealt blows in my time, but his fists coming down on me felt rather like getting several bricks to the gut and other similarly tender parts of the Wooster corpus. I managed to land a fairly good kick to one of his shins just before he was able to get me into a choke hold—if choke hold is the phrase I want—and made a mad dash for the steps in the hopes of at least garnering a reliable witness. Well, semi-reliable, if I ran into Madeline, but I was desperate.

I felt Spode lay two hefty hands on me, gripping my shoulders and pushing me down just as I ankled towards the door. Either the stairs came up or the old Wooster lemon went down, and I bally well broke my neck. 

“Wooster, you blot!”, you’re probably saying to yourself, “Don’t exaggerate so! You can’t very well have broken your neck if you lived to tell the tale.”. Well, if you are indeed saying such things, then you may cease immediately, for I can safely assure you I did not live to tell the tale. In fact, I died to tell it.

Spode killed me, you see. I count it as murder since if he hadn’t done it that way he would have probably wrung Bertram’s neck until he went as limp as Anatole’s pasta.

He ran away after he killed me, which seems to me to be a bally cheek. I don’t know how long I hovered there, above my own still body. I can tell you it was a jolly odd experience. I could see my neck twisting in a way necks most assuredly are not supposed to twist, and rather a lot of blood pooling about my head and onto the steps. Rather ghastly. I’m only glad it wasn’t Madeline who found me first, or I’m certain two big men with butterfly nets would have had to come and put her into one of those Glossop brand happy homes. 

Jeeves found me. I’d never seen him react to anything beyond a healthy eyebrow raise, so imagine my surprise when he downright yelled! It was for help, to be fair, since nothing he ever does is without an exacting efficiency, but still! A yell, from Jeeves. I never thought I’d live to see the day, and I didn’t. 

He almost went to help me before he realised. He didn’t do anything beyond feel my pulse, crouching around a pool of blood. He went very pale when he realised the last of the Woosters was no more. Not a touch of colour to be found on the damask Jeevsian cheek. It must have been quite frightening, I imagine.

He was the one who told everyone I’d been murdered, when they finally bothered to show up. Sir Watkyn Bassett tried to convince him it was an accident, but he stood firm. Very firm, is Jeeves. You can count on him to back you up even if you’re lying limp on some steps. 

The police came a while after to cart my body off. They did some things, some chaps came in white coats and took pictures before a maid could scrub the steps. I did manage to see them catch Spode, which I was jolly well chuffed about. They dragged him away and I very nearly whooped. 

You may be wondering how I’m putting this all down. That would be fair, since I’m afraid the campfire stories of your youth have quite deceived you. I can interact with a great many things, like pianos and banjoleles and valets, if I’m so inclined. I’m typing this all up on sir Watkyn Bassett’s typewriter. I’m sure it will shock him in the morning! He had better send it to Jeeves as soon as he spots it or I shall play merry hell with the lights in the dining room. You should see the look on Stiffy’s face when I do it at dinner. It’s jolly good fun.


	2. Chapter 2

I feel like it’s important that I straighten out one or two little details before I totter on with my recount.

Firstly, I’m glad to say that the unfortunate demise has left nary a mark on the willowy Wooster corpus. I get an occasional twinge towards the nape of my neck or a pain a bit like a poker strike at the back of the old onion, but otherwise, there aren’t any downsides in terms of aesthetics.

According to Jeeves, and the few other’s who I’ve heard mention me, I’m a sort of fetching peely-wally blue and lavender mixture, rather like one of Madeline Bassett’s toile cardigans. Equally similar to another part of the wardrobe most beazels posses, Everyone who can see me can just as easily see through me, sort of like stockings when you stretch them over a light—not that I’ve ever stretched any stockings over any lights, mind you, and I’m very unlikely to now. A bit like a stained glass window, I suppose. Jeeves would probably disapprove of the colour most strongly if I ever brought it home in the form of a snazzy necktie or a rather corking pair of socks, like those plum ones that almost made him hand over the dreaded resignation.

I rather miss changing clothes. Everything about clothes, really. Even the memories of the sorts of quarrels straw hats and similar tosh would always cause in the Wooster abode now seem to bring about the fuzzy feelings often associated with Christmases or Birthday parties. I imagine Jeeves probably misses such things, too, or perhaps I hope it. With him being a paragon among valets and all men in general, looking after someone he can’t even see all the time must be jolly de-fizzing, if that’s a word. I can’t imagine any other valet in the world who’d be willing to stay in a house as awful as Totleigh just to tend to the late y.m.

Now, with things being all settled with Jeeves’s arrangements and wages and the like, I became free to quite comfortably ankle—or, float, I suppose—about the towers without quite so heavy a pain within my breast. I was as close as I could ever hope to be to normal, faced with a great many changes still. I tried to focus on the positives, like the fact that I could still play the piano and would no longer have to fear any aged relations forcing me off into weddings with fillies who’d have more in common with a plant pot than me. I still had my Jeeves. Stiffy had stopped trying to throw a poker at me every time she saw me at the end of the hallway. I wasn’t going to let a little thing like being quite dead put a damper on the trademark sunny disposish.

I became used to things, and very nearly fell into a routine. It took me a good few months to map out Totleigh, including a few mortifying instances in which I poked my head through Madeline’s bedroom wall first thing in the ack emma and very nearly caught her in the less than presentable, which is about as far away from preux as you can get. I’m not too ashamed to admit that after no small amount of time spent looking for a long term place to settle down with that Morpheus chappie every night, I settled on the little room near Jeeves’s for the most part. I could just float above the bed, you see, and I didn’t have to listen to any of Sir Watkyn’s late night mumbling. Truth be told, the walls below stairs being so thin meant that I could generally hear Jeeves snoring or rustling his blankets, which was jolly calming, if you’ll believe me.

I would make an effort not to play the piano with others present, but sometimes, the need simply got too strong. It does give a chap rather a surge of power to scare grown men and women out of their bally skins just by playing some fruity number like ’47 ginger headed sailors’. Certain more mournful tunes were reserved for whenever everyone was visibly getting on the Jeevsian nerves and got themselves in need of a good spooking. 

Did I mention I can’t always be seen? It really depends on who it is who’s looking. Sir Watkyn doesn’t seem to have ever noticed, which he’s probably glad of. Stiffy’s seen me once or twice and, as mentioned previously, tried to launch things in the general direction of my melon. Madeline’s only seen me a few scarce times. Jeeves is the one who can see me the most often. 

Often, you see, but not all the time.

When a chap is deprived of the Drones, he must find ways to amuse himself. This can make for some interesting occupations, and some really rather topping discoveries. 

I never knew Jeeves talks to himself. Maybe it’s a new development since the last of the Woosters became the late last of the Woosters, but he does. In the kitchen, usually, or some other part of his lair. 

Did I mention I can’t always be seen?

**Author's Note:**

> This may get more chapters?? Maybe


End file.
